


Purgatory and Pancakes

by china_shop



Category: Canadian Actor RPF, Fandom RPF, due South
Genre: Crack, Fic, Llamas, M/M, Mary Sue, Meta
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-05-01
Updated: 2008-05-01
Packaged: 2017-10-13 04:11:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/132688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/china_shop/pseuds/china_shop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which I attempt to repair the llama.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Purgatory and Pancakes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mergatrude](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mergatrude/gifts).



> For mergatrude, who asked for cruiseliner kissing and "Well, it's not the sort of thing I'd do." With love. Thanks also to anonymous for the virtual typewriter gift! \o/ Look, it worked!

I tighten the uvula screws on the LLAMA and sit back on my heels, wiping my wrist across my forehead. This is hard work, and I'm only a third of the way through the huge repair manual. But I'm determined to stick to the rules this time, and when I press the Test button on the back of her neck, I'm rewarded with a tremor running across her flanks, and a tremble in her knees.

I think she's getting better. Her head is screwed on straight now (that took me several tries) and she smells like herself again thanks to Turnbull's mad cleaning skillz. I just need to rewire all her logic circuits and capital sensory input nodes (eyes, ears, nose, mouth) and then she'll be the Albuquerque she used to be. Well, except for the modifications I put in the first time around. Like, I haven't decided yet whether I should reinstall the failed Time Zone Alignment Upgrade -- it never worked, but I think it did have an effect on her personality, and what if you want her back exactly the way she was.

I pat her shoulder and decide to take a break, so I head up to the B Deck to find you, with the repair manual under my arm. I have some studying to do after lunch.

You're in the café drinking a soy hot chocolate and eating lemon cheesecake, and I plonk myself down across from you and slide the manual onto the chair beside me. "Hi."

"Hey," you say with your mouth full. "How's it going?"

"Okay." The fate of the llama is still a touchy subject, and it's easier for us to pretend everything's okay if I don't rub your face in it.

I scan the menu for yummy goodness, recklessly choose pancakes with bacon and banana and maple syrup, and wave the waiter over so I can order. Then I look at you and ask casually, "What's new?"

"You should've been in the TV lounge an hour ago," you say and sip your hot chocolate. "Callum and Hugh and Mark were watching the hockey -- I just happened to be passing and Dief was in there so I went to see what was going on, and Mark was critiquing all the play until Callum mocked him for it, and then Hugh started flirting with both of them."

"Oh my God," I say, wide-eyed. "Are they getting serious?"

You chew your lip thoughtfully. "I don't think so? I think they're just having fun. But anyway, they were all making out during the commercial break -- all of them! It was like they'd forgotten I was even there."

I whimper and pout a little. "I can't believe I missed that! Not fair!"

"Well, if you're going to be MIA all the time--" You shrug.

"I have obligations," I point out. "I have to make amends."

" _Amends_ \-- one of the worst Buffy eps ever," you say tartly. "Angel wandering around during the day just because it was overcast. So much for their precious vampire mythology." And then our conversation devolves into a safe discussion of other bad BtVS eps, and subsequently various wince-worthy Due South episodes, and I never get all the details on the Callum/Mark/Hugh snoggage. To my woe.

When I've finished my pancakes, I push the plates away and sigh.

"Got plans for the afternoon?" you ask, as you apply sunscreen to your nose.

I can't help glancing at the repair manual. "I should go to the library and study for a bit." You don't say anything, and I fiddle with sugar packets for a minute. "Sorry."

You shrug carelessly. "Whatever. I'm going to nap by the pool. Fraser promised to teach me to shoot clay pigeons later."

"Gun lessons?" I raise my eyebrows. "Are you sure?"

"Well, it's not the sort of thing I'd do, normally, but after the alien invasion and all that fuss on the vehicle deck, I thought maybe I should be prepared." You glance out to sea. "You never know when things are going to go horribly wrong around here, after all."

"And hey, quality time with Fraser," I add, quashing twin pangs of guilt and jealousy.

"Exactly." You reach for your bag, then hesitate and look at me over the top of your sunglasses. "You sure you won't join us?"

"Oh, no, I can't. I--" I wave vaguely. "Um. You know. Stuff."

"Okay, well." You push your sunglasses back up your nose and sling your bag over your shoulder. "See you later."

"Dinner?" I ask, trying to make up for being AWOL all the time.

"Of course," you say. "Meet you in the bar at seven?"

"Yes!" I sigh as you head off, and push the dirty plates aside so I can thump the repair manual onto the table.

"Can I get you anything?" asks the waiter.

I shake my head. "An apple juice and a bigger brain, please."

 

***

 

 **mergatrude:** Oh God I Loathe Amends And Its Fake Snow Redemption Crapola What Were You Thinking Joss At Least It Wasn't An Unscheduled Solar Eclipse! Good call, there.  <3

Also, I miss you! *hugs tight*

 

***

 

I study the manual for half the afternoon and have a breakthrough around three o'clock when I realise I should've fixed the capital sensory inputs before I reattached Albuquerque's head. So then I spend hours with my hands squeezed inside her narrow neck, trying to fine tune her eyes by feel from the inside. Doh!

But I can't behead her again -- the idea makes me squeamish, and I've already mentioned to you that it's reattached, so I don't want you to see her without it again.

I listen to the Headstones and work hard, and I'm actually making some headway when I look up and realise it's almost nine-thirty and I'm starving. Somehow the last five hours just vanished. I wonder whether it's the Time Zone doohickey or just me zoning out. Either way, I'm late.

I dash to my cabin for a cursory clean-up and a change of clothes, and then scamper up to the bar. You're sitting at a table with Mark, stealing his nachos, and Hugh's on the tiny platform stage just wrapping up _the lovers, the dreamers and me._

My jaw drops and I go over to you. "Hugh sang The Rainbow Connection?! _And I missed it?!?!?!_ " I could cry.

"Where've you been?" you ask.

Mark finishes off his nachos, gets up and says goodbye to you and goes over to where Hugh is staking out a table in the corner. There's no sign of Callum.

"I lost track of time," I explain, distractedly, watching Hugh and Mark laughing together. "Where's Callum? How many songs did Hugh sing and what were they? Why were you sitting with Mark? How was the shooting lesson with Fraser?"

You don't answer any of my questions. "Have you eaten?"

"What?" I tear my eyes from Hugh, past the empty stage and look at you. "Sorry. It's just that big things are happening all over the place and I'm missing it all." I slide into the chair Mark vacated and look around for a menu.

"Nothing's happening," you say, but I'm pretty sure you're just trying to make me feel better.

"Please tell me Callum and Hugh are okay," I beg. "If I've inadvertently broken them too, I may have to permanently ban myself from the cruiseliner."

"You're not allowed!" you say sharply. "And not everything's about you, you know? Callum was here earlier, but he got annoyed with Hugh drinking, so he went off to meditate or play night golf or something."

I frown. "That doesn't sound good, though." I pick a corn chip out of Mark's abandoned nachos, study it for a minute, then put it back and go to the bar for a menu, order a steak. I bring you back a silly frou-frou mocktail as a peace offering. "They are okay, though? Callum and Hugh, I mean."

You dart a glance at Hugh's table, then tilt your head. "Threesomes are complicated."

"I thought you said they weren't serious," I protest. "It's not a threesome if they're just fooling around, is it?"

"I don't know." You sip your drink and pull a face. "God, what is this? Pineapple juice?"

I wave that aside. "Focus. What's going on?"

"Maybe Callum was just getting used to having Hugh to himself. I mean, the cruiseliner is the first chance they've really had to be exclusive." You take another sip of your drink. "What if Callum liked that?"

"Except they haven't been particularly exclusive here," I argue, and then try to remember if that's true. "Okay. Mostly. But -- oh God, I've broken them." I bury my head in my hands. "I suck."

"They're independent agents making their own decisions," you say briskly. "Get over yourself. Eat something."

"I ordered food," I say pathetically. "And they're only as independent as I let them be. I mean, I can make them behave OOC, if I want."

You narrow your eyes at me. "If you're getting delusions of godliness, I'm going to have to hold you entirely responsible for what happened to Albuquerque."

"Uh." I bite my lip. "Okay, true. That's fair. And I'm not. At least, I don't think I was. I mean, there was the whole narrative causality thing. And I mean, if I could control everything, I wouldn't keeping _missing_ stuff!" I conclude peevishly.

"Right. So stop being neurotic." You pat my shoulder. "Shit happens. And Callum and Hugh will be fine."

"They'd better be." A sense of doom is making itself at home in my gut. "I mean, I think you're right -- I don't have any control over what happens, but the next level up of me? The meta!me. I think she's pulling some strings. And I don't entirely trust her."

You think about this for a minute while you play with the tiny paper parasol in your drink. "Yeah. Otoh, I think I have some influence with meta!you."

"You do!" This is reassuring. "So you just need to tell her what you want to have happen, and she'll do it. Phew!"

"Maybe." You lean back in your chair and look at Hugh and Mark again. A strange expression crosses your face. "They look good together, don't you think?"

I blink, and the sense of doom burrows deeper into me. "What are you saying? What about Callum?"

You don't seem to be listening. "I wonder if meta!you can get Callum to quit smoking. Because, you know--"

"He'd drive you crazy," I say quickly, scared of where this is going. "You can't just get me to clean him up and deliver him to your doorstep with a bow around his neck! It doesn't work like that."

You raise your eyebrows. "I know that. But you could nudge. Well, meta!you could nudge. It's not like he and I haven't--" You gesture vaguely. "--before. You know, during the alien invasion thing."

I stare at you in horror. "Okay, something is seriously wrong with this picture. When did you turn evil?!"

"It's not evil," you say, calmly. "It's lateral thinking. And if you're going to spend your whole time working on the llama, I have to have something else to do."

"I'm doing it for you! It's recompense! What do you want from me -- blood?" I fold my arms. "If you want a distraction, why don't you distract yourself with Mark? Let Callum and Hugh stay all happy and OTP."

"Maybe," you say, but you don't seem convinced.

I rub my face and wonder what the hell's going on. Is meta!me trying to placate you by giving you whatever you ask for? But then, if meta!me is so powerful, why isn't she making you want things that I want too? Maybe meta!me is punishing _me_ \-- except that seems supremely unfair, given that she was the one who started this whole thing in the first place.

I may have to have words with her if I can figure out how. In the meantime, I can't help feeling like the only way to set things to rights is to fix Albuquerque. I'm so busy worrying about all this and trying to figure it out that I don't even notice when Hugh and Mark get up and head for the door, hand in hand.

 

***

 

 **mergatrude:** I start thinking that I'm not very nice, but then I get distracted by the thought of ... mmmmm, Callum!  
 **china:** I didn't mean to make you evil, but I think the power to influence me may have gone to your head.  
 **mergatrude:** Oh. Do I have that? Wouldn't I make you bring Gardino on board, then?   
**china:** HEE! Do you want Gardino on board? Because if you do... yep. Of course, then Kowalski might leave Fraser for Gardino. You have to think these things through.  
 **mergatrude:** NEVER! F/K is the COMPLETELY UNBREAKABLE CRUISELINER OTP!!!  
 **china:** Which I nearly broke. /o\  
 **mergatrude:** But you couldn't break it. See?  
 **china:** I know, but I gave it a nasty sprain.  
 **mergatrude:** Sprains are manageable.

::

 **mergatrude:** So does this mean "llama broken = m broken"?  
 **china:** I think Albuquerque was like a barrier between us and meta!us. And we get more anarchic and individualist in the absence of llama, maybe? Or maybe it's just that we're not spending enough time together (which, yes, was supposed to be a reflection of how I kept missing you yesterday and vice versa) so our ideals are drifting apart.  
 **mergatrude:** *nods* We need to reinforce each other and mutually reinforce the cruiseliner worldview.  
 **china:** Yes! And it's hard (narratively as well as realistically) to go back, so we need to find a way forward that gets us to somewhere we want to be.  
 **mergatrude:** *longs for the simple days of dancing*  
 **china:** I know. I kind of ruined everything, and now I'm picking through the rubble trying to fit it together again. (I don't know if this is CL!me or meta!me or both.)  
 **mergatrude:** MetaYou could distract me with Spike? I mean, not that I prefer him to Callum, but he would be distracting because I'd have to deal with him without you? (I keep trying you to bring Spike on board as a kind of chaos vector.)  
 **china:** I could throw other Callum characters at you until you succumb. GRAY!  
 **mergatrude:** MMMMMMMMMGray!!!!!!!! He can be my BOTW!  
 **china:** Typecasting! Y'know, if you get all wrapped up in another character, then when I've finished working on the llama, you won't have time for meeeeeeeee anymore.  
 **mergatrude:** I know. So maybe you need to get me involved in the llama reconstruction project?

 

***

 

I wolf down my steak in about ten seconds while you tell me about your shooting lesson (apparently standing really close to Fraser and having him adjust your stance and stuff is really distracting, so you weren't very good at it but you had a good time anyway), and then it's nearly eleven, and I'm torn between sleeeeeping and getting back to the grindstone. I was making significant progress with the visual inputs and I don't want to lose the flow -- I figure even if I work all night, I can just spend tomorrow napping and recovering. It'll be worth it.

"Um, so I might. Just." I finish my drink. "Get back to work."

You poke your straw at the ice cubes in the bottom of your glass and don't look at me. "How's that going?"

"Good, I think. I'm, um, getting there. You know. Lots to do, still." I shift nervously in my seat, thinking of how _much_ there is to do.

"Yeah." The ice cubes clink together.

"She doesn't smell bad anymore," I tell you, hoping this will comfort you. "Turnbull was amazing. But she, y'know. Um. Doesn't have much fur left, either."

You blink hard and then look at me, and I'm swamped with guilt _again_ , which makes me kind of cranky.

"I'm doing the best I can!" I throw up my hands. "It's hard. It's like a field strategy exercise, only the enemy isn't trying to kill me. The enemy is a puzzle and there are lots of different pieces and independently, separately, they don't -- they don't make any sense. And I have to think it through really hard and work it out. Try different combinations of putting things together."

You're looking at me oddly.

"Sorry," I say. "Farscape. I think it ate my brain."

"I'm starting to hate that show," you say.

"Aw, no. It's awesome!" I start, and then shut my mouth with a snap. Maybe this isn't the time. I change the subject and say, as casually as I can, "So, you know, I could use some help if you--"

"What, _now_?" You look at me like I'm deranged. "It's late. I'm going to sleep."

"Oh, sure. I know. Maybe tomorrow, though?"

"Maybe." You don't sound convinced, but you don't sound angry either, at least. I figure all things considered, that's a win.

"Okay, well, I'm just gonna--" I stand up. "If anything exciting happens, call me?"

"Maybe," you say again, and I suppress a sigh and head back to the coalface.

 

***

 

 **mergatrude:** Awww! I'm being pissy and horrible to you. Sorry! (Also, narrative causality aside, I can't bring myself to hate Farscape.)  
 **china:** I really don't think you should feel bad because I'm making you be horrible to me.  
 **mergatrude:** I know. I'm over identifying with myself.

 

***

 

Two hours later, I've nearly got the olfactory organs fine tuned, and there's a knock on the door. I look up, half expecting it to be Turnbull with refreshments, or maybe you. Maybe you couldn't sleep and you've come down to see for yourself how it's going.

It's Callum. "Hey," he says, in his quiet way. "How's the camelid?"

"Oh, um, hi." I blush and push the hair out of my eyes wondering how much grease I have streaked across my face. "Um, getting there. You know? Slowly."

"You've got its head back on -- that's progress, right?" He sits on the floor with his back against the wall and pats his pockets, pulls out a packet of cigarettes. "Mind if I--?"

"Um, some of this stuff is kind of flammable," I say, apologetically, hoping he won't decide to go and smoke somewhere else. "Juice instead?"

Turnbull's letting me use the fridge in the corner of the workshop, and I go over and pour us each a glass of papaya and mango juice.

"Thanks." Callum looks tired.

I kneel back down next to the llama and fiddle with her wiring as though I'm working, but he's so distracting that I daren't do anything that requires actual concentration. "Is everything okay?"

He leans his head back against the wall and purses his lips. "Sure."

 _Then why are you here?_ I wonder. _Why aren't you with Hugh?_ But I can't say that. I wonder if he's here to see me or Albuquerque, or just because he doesn't have anywhere else to go.

He drinks his juice and stares at his knees, and after a while I relax and start working on the llama again for real.

"It's not the same," says Callum out of the blue, making me jump and drop my pliers with a clatter.

I pick them up again and look at him. "What isn't?"

"All of it. Without the, uh, llama." Callum turns his glass in his hands. He seems more than just tired now. He seems weary.

I bite my lip. Maybe Callum's like a canary in a coalmine. Maybe if I don't fix Albuquerque soon, more and more of the passengers are going to get restless and dissatisfied. Maybe some of them will even leave!

I swallow and cast around for something to say that will make things right. "You know, Mark isn't--" I stop, unsure whether it's okay to stick my nose in, and then reason that he's here because he wants me to. "Hugh digs you. As much as you dig golf, you know?"

Callum scratches his neck. "People change."

"That doesn't," I say firmly. I put down my pliers and turn to face him fully. "Hugh is loyal and constant and he loves you. He gave you his ring."

Callum's mouth curls up. "He gave Bruce a Headstones ring. He gave a lot of people rings."

"Yeah, but you guys are--" I shake my head. "Solid. MFEO. A wolfpack of two. He'd do anything for you -- he said so."

Callum raises his eyebrows, but he seems to be listening.

I grab my ipod and find _Anything_ , and then plug it into the speakers and play it. Callum stares into the middle distance. When it ends, he says, "That was a long time ago."

"Anything!" I say firmly. "You want more, he'll figure out how to get it," I remind him. "Talk to him!" I advise strongly.

Callum's looking at me like I'm crazy. "What's it to you, anyway?"

"I'm cursed with trying to keep everyone happy," I mutter. "Look, I know you guys will make it. I know you will. And yeah, I'm fixing the llama and that'll help too. Just hang in there, okay?"

"I need a smoke," he says, but he does seem reassured, so I let him go out into the night, and wonder when I got so familiar with these guys that I could interfere like this.

Then I get back to work, carefully positioning the ear anvils and hammers and stirrups and at the same time, picking away in the back of my mind wondering who in hell I'm going to pair Mark up with, once Callum and Hugh have coupled up again. *headdesk*

 

***

 

 **mergatrude:** *pets Callum* You should send him dancing! I'm there! *slips into amoral mode*  
 **china:** NO!!!!!! I am trying to smoosh Callum and Hugh, thank you kindly.  
 **mergatrude:** Can't blame a girl for trying! Also, I'm starting to get irritated by our obsession with pairing people off. Why does everything have to be couply? *goes to meeting*  
 **china:** It sounds like you're going to a Pairings Anonymous Meeting. And yes, I know. But then there's Mark. Oh, hey...

 

***

 

By six-thirty in the morning, I'm running on empty, but I've got most of the capital sensory inputs at least partially working, and I'm going to have to read the next chapter in the repair manual before I can co-ordinate them properly and hook them up to the Input Data Interpretation Module.

Someone clears their throat, and I look up to see you standing in the doorway. "Hi."

"Hey." I hastily pull my hands out of the llama's neck and sit back on my heels. "You look like you just woke up."

"You look like you didn't sleep at all," you counter, and I pull a face and stretch my neck out.

"Yeah, I was on a roll." I pat Albuquerque's side, and she turns her head towards me and blinks silently. "Oh, hey, that's a good sign."

You nod and tilt your head, studying her. "I could knit her some new ears," you offer, doubtfully.

"She really needs a whole new coat." I rub my knuckles over one of the bare patches on the back of her neck. "But, um, yeah. That would be awesome. I bet Turnbull has some craft supplies you could purloin."

You nod. "Okay. It's probably too early, though. I mean, even for Turnbull." You pick your way through the oily rags and scattered tools, and sit down next to me. "In the meantime, what can I do to help?"

I swallow past the lump in my throat and dump the frelling manual in your lap. "See if you can make sense of chapter 148?" I suggest.

You glance at the densely worded text and your eyes widen. "You've read all the way up to here?"

"Yeah." I fiddle with a screwdriver. "I mean, I had to."

Albuquerque bleats and turns her head and nuzzles you, startling the breath out of me.

"Huh," I say. "She seems a lot better already."

"You've been working on her all night," you say. "It's probably just that."

"No." I frown. "I don't think so -- she wasn't responding spontaneously to anything before. Not even cheesecake."

You rub Albuquerque's nose tentatively, and she snuffles into your hand.

"Maybe it's not that the llama affects us," I say, slowly, the hypothesis blooming in my mind as I say the words. "Maybe it's the other way around -- she's an external manifestation of stuff."

The llama eyes me balefully and tries to chew on my hair.

"Or maybe it's just that meta!you finally got the message," you suggest dryly, trying to distract her with other semi-edible things.

We give her an irreparably damaged Stetson to chew on, and I shake my head. "Meta!me is kinda slooow."

You grin. "Adorkable, though."

I don't really have any choice but to take that as a compliment.

The llama spits the Stetson aside and bleats again.

"She wants biscotti," you translate. "And Earl Grey tea." You shake your head. "I think she's become European."

I grab the repair manual and flick to the copyright page. "Uh, yeah. This is an EU version. Oops."

You shrug. "I like it. And hey, you must've done something to her language centres -- I can understand her now."

"She's your Dief and you're her Fraser," I say. "That's pretty cool. Want to take her for a test drive -- I mean, just to the café -- before I fall over and go unconscious for eight or twenty hours?"

 

***

 

It's shaping up to be a beautiful day. The sky is a gorgeous deep blue and there are only a few little fluffy clouds. The sea sparkles and the air hums with a familiar llama-induced PG-13 forcefield.

When we get there, the café's still pretty quiet, it being so early. The only other customers are Turnbull (who's eating breakfast and chatting to Gino, the barista) and Mark Smithbauer, who's sitting by himself near the railing, typing on a laptop. You and I grab a table and some menus, and Albuquerque takes a bite out of one of the menus and then leans against the railing with her head on your shoulder, humming contentedly.

"Um," I start to scratch my eyebrow, and then realise I'm doing a Fraser tic and stop myself. "I'm just going to talk to Mark. Won't be a sec."

"China! Don't!" you say, but I have to, so I go over to him.

He doesn't look up from his laptop until I cough meaningfully, and even then he's mostly distracted by whatever's on the screen. Maybe he's writing RPS about us, like Hugh did. Maybe everyone is.

I try not to think about that. "Um, hi. Sorry. I just--" I take a deep breath and wish he'd invite me to sit down.

Instead, he angles the laptop screen away from me and looks up impatiently. "Yeah?"

"Sorry," I repeat. "I've been wracking my brains all night for who to hook you up with -- and I feel bad because, um, if Callum and Hugh break up with you, I might've had something to do with that. So. Um. If there's anything at all I can do--"

"They didn't break up with me." Mark looks me up and down with slightly scathing eyebrows, and okay I'm rumpled and covered in oil and band aids from where I cut myself on the sharper bits of the llama, but--

Actually, no. No buts. I totally deserve scathing. "But if they do. You see, I fixed the llama and--"

Mark holds up his hands to silence me, and I dwindle to a halt. "A) There was nothing to break up," he said. "It was just a bit of fun. B) I was the one who called Time, and that was because I have some other business -- very _important_ business -- to take care of. And C) I don't see how any of this has anything to do with you _or_ your llama."

"She's not mine," I say, automatically. "She's Mergatrude's."

"Whatever." He looks me up and down again, with a thoughtful expression. "Regardless of all that, if you're offering--"

 

***

 

I go back to our table and there's an array of delicious looking breakfast foods, and I sit down feeling a little stunned.

"What did he say?" you ask, watching me.

I take a deep breath and then can't really figure out what to do with it. "Um. Do you want the good news or the bad news?"

"Good, then bad." You scratch behind Albuquerque's ears.

"The good news is that Mark isn't nursing a broken heart. And by all accounts, Callum and Hugh are happy and together just how they should be." I pick up a bagel and smear it with a thick layer of cream cheese.

"That _is_ good." You raise your eyebrows. "What's the bad news?"

"Um, I just signed us up to play in the mother of all shuffleboard tournaments," I say in a very small voice.

You blink. "You're _impossible!_ "

"I _had_ to," I whine pathetically. "I owed him!"

"That Catholic guilt gene." You shake your head at me severely. "You need therapy."

"Gene therapy?" I say, as a lightbulb flashes in my head. "David Sandstrom could fix me! I wonder if there's any way to lure him onboard."

You cuff my shoulder. "You really want to go there?"

"Um, no?" I say unconvincingly.

"Incorrigible!" you say, poking me. "Eat your bagel, get lots of sleep and wait for your braincells to come back online, okay?"

"Incorrigible in a good way, though, right?"

You stroke Albuquerque's nose. "Get us all pancakes and I'll say yes."

"Oh my God!" I feign outrage, half-laughing despite myself. "You're totally taking advantage of my guilt gene!"

You grin back at me. "I thought I was taking advantage of your love-of-pancakes gene."

"Ha! That too." And it's true -- the more you mention pancakes, the more I want them. I go to the counter and interrupt Gino and Turnbull long enough to order, despite the fact that our table is already groaning under the weight of all the food. And then I come back over to where you're munching happily on strawberries and mangoes, and slide into my seat. "So, um, we're good?"

"Well, we're going to get beaten to a pulp at shuffleboard," you say, "but yeah."

"Thank God," I say, and lean across the table to pat Albuquerque. "The whole llama disaster was starting to get me down. She's so complicated."

"She's a freak," you say fondly, "but she's our freak."

"Freaks bring their own reward," I quote, just as our pancakes arrive. It takes careful juggling to fit all the plates on the table, but we do it, and then we settle in with gusto to eat until we (nearly) explode. Albuquerque samples everything with curiosity and delight, and we laugh at her. And we are, indeed, good.

 

***

 

 **mergatrude:** GLOMP!!!!! I LOVE that Mark's important business is a shuffleboard contest! But - I asked for kissing!  
 **china:** Well, you got to see Callum and Hugh and Mark making out in front of the TV. I just wasn't there for that bit. *shrugs helplessly* I was in llama repair purgatory.  
 **mergatrude:** Okay. But you owe me random cruiseliner passenger kissing!  
 **china:** Always.

 

::

 

 **china:** So is it narratively satisfying, or does it feel like a cheat?  
 **mergatrude:** No, it feels clean. I feel clean. Like I've gotten over my self-indulgent hissy fit.  
 **china:** \o/ Which I imposed on you. /o\ And now we have a fancy Eurollama.  
 **mergatrude:** Croissants!  
 **china:** Who is really still Albuquerque on the inside, but with added airs and graces. Mmmmmmm, croissants!  
 **mergatrude:** Lasagne!  
 **china:** In the end, it's pancakes.


End file.
